The Lost Sister (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 7)

by Elle Gray

  “So, you think they groomed her to be this killing machine? That sounds more like something out of a movie than real life.”

  “How else do you explain it?” I ask. “I mean, why abduct a young girl if not to traffic her?”

  “Just because she doesn’t fit the profile of a trafficking victim doesn’t mean she wasn’t trafficked,” Astra points out. “It is possible she went to a high-end trafficker. One who takes… ‘good care’ of his victims.” The words come out in a disgusted tone. “He educates them, feeds them, clothes them—he does everything to keep them pretty and keep them earning. Those types of traffickers do exist.”

  “Yeah, but they’re rare,” I reply. “Very rare. Ninety-nine percent of traffickers deal in volume. They keep them hooked on drugs and use them up until there’s nothing left, then throw them out and replace them with a new one. Less overhead, less cost to keep them up.”

  “Maybe Kit fell in with that one percent,” Astra offers. “I think it’s a lot more plausible than her being groomed as an assassin.”

  I have to admit it sounds farfetched. Really farfetched. But at the same time, it holds a ring of truth for me. I can’t explain why but I still think it’s more plausible than her falling in with that one percent of traffickers.

  “What about Torres?” Astra asks. “Can you really see him being part of the Thirteen? Because I can’t.”

  “I can’t either. He doesn’t have the kind of money to join that club,” I say. “But it’s possible he’s working for them. Maybe they offered him a seat at the table if he can sink me.”

  “Now, that’s a theory I can get behind,” she agrees. “But do you really think somebody like Graham or Mangold would ever let him near the table, let alone have a seat at it?”

  “Oh God, no. But Torres is so blinded by his ambition that he’ll stop at nothing to get what he thinks he’s owed,” I say. “But I’ll admit, that theory doesn’t really have legs just yet. I’m basing it on similar comments made by him and Graham. It’s a stretch.”

  “You must be limber as hell this morning with all the stretching you’re doing,” she says.

  That draws a laugh from me. I walk to the workstation and pick up the cup of coffee I grabbed on the way into the office. I take a drink, letting my mind twist and turn with all these theories in my head. I’ll admit I may have gone off the deep end with some of my thinking. My theories, from Torres being part of the Thirteen to my sister being some high-end contract killer, are pretty out there. No question about it.

  But in my defense, I’ve never been so uncertain of anything before in my life. I’ve never felt so unsure of myself to the degree I am right now. Right now, I’m questioning every move I make, then second-guessing that answer too. There is just so much going on and so many wheels in motion. I’m holding a host of disparate parts in my hand with no way of knowing how they fit together, and yet I feel like I’m expected to put it all together anyway.

  And this is all against a backdrop of some shadowy organization who’s got the juice to murder three Supreme Court Justices simply because—in theory—they want their members to make more money. A lot more money. Financial motivations are right near the top of the list of why people kill, and when we’re talking about countless billions of dollars in play, that motivation is even more understandable.

  Then there’s the mythical, unstoppable contract killer who might potentially have me in his sights at some point soon—and who might also be my sister. Or even if it’s not my sister, I still have myriad unanswered questions about what exactly she’s doing when she sneaks out at night and where she’s been all these years. On top of that, the Senate hearings I’m being dragged into with the threat of my team being blown up hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles have been completely fruitless. And last but certainly not least, a Member of Congress is making it her life’s mission to destroy me, and it becomes really understandable why I’m so far off my game lately. I’m pretty sure anybody in my position would be.

  Astra and I both turn as the doors to the shop slide open and Rick strolls through with his bag slung over his shoulder and a dark green smoothie in his hand. He sees us looking at him and shrugs.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I was just admiring the foul-looking shake in your hand,” Astra says.

  “It’s full of healthy things,” he protests defensively.

  “Oh good, I hope all the healthy things in that smoothie offset the Big Mac you’re going to have for lunch,” she teases.

  He gives her an obscene gesture and laughs as he gets himself situated at his workstation.

  “I have a task for you, Rick,” I say.

  “Great. What is it?”

  “Before I ask, I need you to know this is volunteer only. If you have even the slightest hesitation about it, do not be afraid to say so,” I tell him. “This situation is getting dangerous. Really dangerous, so I don’t want you involved if you don’t want to be.”

  “And when she says dangerous, she means high-end contract killers might possibly be coming to cut your head off if you’re not careful,” Astra adds. Rick chortles, but she keeps a straight face.

  “Astra,” I gasp.

  She shrugs. “He should probably have the full picture of what we’re looking at,” she points out. “It’s only fair he knows.”

  I nod. “You’re right,” I admit, then turn my attention to Rick again, whose face is slowly falling.

  “Wait. That was a joke, right?”

  “No, it wasn’t. She’s right. This whole situation is getting hairy, Rick. So, before you commit to this, just know that there are bad people doing bad things and you could be putting yourself in the crosshairs.”

  He shrugs and gives us a grin. “Sounds cool, actually.”

  “No, it sounds dangerous,” I press.

  “Yeah, like I said, it sounds cool. International assassins? Hell yeah. It’s like John Wick,” he says. “I’m all in. So, what’s the job?”

  A smile curls the corners of my mouth upward and I shake my head. Rick is as eccentric as Fish in his own way. But there’s no denying that he’s a genius at what he does. He’s hands down the best analyst I’ve ever worked with. I don’t count Brody, because I’ve never technically worked with him the way I do with Rick. The thought of what those two could do if they got together and decided to take over the world is terrifying.

  “We’re looking for a mass grave in Paraguay,” I say.

  “Any specific one? From what I hear, there are a lot.”

  “It will be right outside the campus of the Platinum Precision Tech weapons manufacturing plant down there,” I explain. “Supposedly contains around eight hundred bodies. I need some digital proof of that—photos, ideally. I also need you to hack into the plant’s email servers and see if you can find anything interesting.”

  I know Fish is working on getting that proof I need. But I also know that he wants me to drop this altogether and so, I have a feeling he’s going to slow-walk it. He’ll eventually get it to me—he’s a man of his word. But I can see him waiting to deliver it until some of the heat has died down. Besides, it never hurts to get secondary verification. Especially when it’s something this explosive.

  Rick sits back in his seat and whistles low. “You weren’t kidding about this being hairy.”

  “Right. So, there’s still a chance for you to say no,” I tell him. “You don’t have to go in on this with us.”

  Rick shakes his head. “I’m part of this team. One hundred percent,” he says. “You guys have become like family to me, and I’ve always believed that family sticks together no matter how nasty a situation gets. So, count me in. If it’s out there, I’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  “Wow, Rick,” Astra pipes up. “I never knew you had stones like that. I’m impressed. Mad respect, my friend. Sincerely—mad respect.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. Underneath that bushy lumberjack’s beard, I can see his cheeks coloring. He’s obv
iously not comfortable with being praised—especially by Astra. It’s adorable.

  “Thank you, Rick,” I say. “Oh, and since you’re already putting your life on the line, can you see what you can find on an assassin called the Đavole. That’s one of those Ds with a line through it. I wasn’t able to find a whole lot last night, so I’m hoping with your skillset, you’ll be able to find more.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  I’m grateful to my team. They’re all stepping up in major ways and there is no possible way I could ever thank them enough. My only hope is that I’m not leading them like lambs to the slaughter.

  Nineteen

  Wilder Residence, The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments; Downtown Seattle

  I pull into my spot in the underground garage of my building and cut the engine. I grab my bag, get out of my car, and head for the elevators. It’s been a long but productive day down at the CDAU but all I want right now is a glass of wine, a hot shower, and to relax with some music before I go to bed.

  The garage is unusually dim and gloomy and when I look around, I see that some of the overhead lights are out. I make a mental note to contact building maintenance to get those fixed. It’s creepy enough in the garage with light. Without light, the creepiness ratchets up to eleven. I place a hand on my gun, still holstered at my hip. I never keep my gun on me when I’m driving, but after the twenty-four hours I’ve had, I am not taking any chances. As I walk toward the alcove where the elevators are located, the skin on my arms prickles with goosebumps and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  I swallow hard and try to push the sensations away. But they persist. I stop and turn, looking around at the garage behind me, peering into the shadows and gloom for any sign of movement. Looking for anybody lurking in the darkness. I don’t see a soul though.

  “Get a grip, Blake,” I mutter to myself.

  I take another step, and something crunches beneath my boots. I look down and then up, and find that I’m standing directly beneath one of the overhead lights I thought had burned out. It hasn’t. It’s been broken. The realization sends a spike of fear through my heart, and I grab my gun from the holster.

  I feel him behind me a split second before I hear him step on the broken glass. I round on the man in black as he seems to emerge from the darkness like a living shadow. The crackling popping sound of the stun gun in his hand fills my ears and before I can bring my weapon to bear, my entire body locks up. Every muscle inside of me is taut and I feel myself spasming as a white-hot pain fills me.

  I convulse as fifty-thousand volts shoot through my body, but I’m still aware enough to see that the man stunning me is wearing a plastic distortion mask. It not only keeps me from getting a good look at his face, but it will also prevent facial recognition software from getting an ID on him. The man is smart and prepared. Could this be the mythical assassin? If so, why didn’t he just kill me outright? He obviously got the drop on me.

  Another hard jolt of electricity grips my body and then my world goes black.

  I awake in darkness. There’s not a pinprick of light to be seen and I feel a wave of panic wash over me. It’s only when I come back to myself and feel fully aware again that I realize it’s perfectly dark because there’s a hood over my head. I try to move my hands and am unsurprised to find they’ve been bound to the arms of a chair and my ankles to the legs. I’m perfectly immobilized, completely vulnerable, and have to fight back the waves of panic that threaten to pull me under.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to remain calm. To focus. It’s not easy though. Ahead of me, I hear the squeal of hinges that need some oil. A door must be opening. Two sets of footsteps approach; my body tightens in terror. A moment later, the hood is pulled off and I find myself blinking and squinting, my eyes burning with the sudden intrusion of light.

  It takes a minute, but my eyes finally adjust, and I look around. There are unmarked cardboard boxes all around me, stacked three and four high. The walls of the room are painted a nauseating shade of mint green, and there are two rows of cone lights hanging from the ceiling, bathing the room in a harsh fluorescent light.

  Two men stand before me. They’re wearing dark suits with white shirts beneath their jackets and dark ties. The one on my left is easily six-five, with no hair on his head, but he’s got a neatly trimmed beard the color of rust. The man to my right is shorter, maybe five-nine tops. He’s a fireplug of a man though, with broad shoulders and a thick chest. He’s got shaggy brown hair, but no beard. Their faces are stony. Expressionless. I don’t even think they’re looking at me so much as at a point on the wall behind me.

  They both stand in front of me, their feet about a shoulder-width apart, hands clasped in front of them. They’re like robots in power save mode or something, just waiting for the next command to be given.

  “So, you guys come here often?” I quip.

  Not so much as an eye twitch from either of them. They continue looking at that point on the wall behind me. I haven’t seen them blink once. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure they’re breathing. I’m scared about what’s coming next but the one thing I am taking heart in right now is that even though I’m tied to this chair, it’s not what I thought it was. This isn’t the Đavole come to kill me. This is something else. What that something else is, I have no idea, but as long as I’m breathing, there’s a chance I’m getting out of this alive.

  The sound of footsteps draws my attention and I watch as a man steps through the door at the far end of the room. He walks toward me with a sense of purpose in his stride and his eyes fixed on me. He’s older, but still has a vigorous energy about him. The man is close to six feet tall. He’s trim, with pale skin and lines around his eyes and mouth. He’s got a shock of white hair atop his head and a white beard, but no mustache, strangely enough. It’s like he’s the photo negative of Abraham Lincoln.

  He’s dressed impeccably in an expertly cut and tailored blue pinstriped suit. A white shirt sits beneath a dark blue vest, and a metallic red tie with a matching pocket square completes the outfit. That suit probably costs more than some people make in a year. He stops a few feet in front of me.

  It’s his eyes that truly capture my attention. They’re a shade of blue so light, they’re almost silver. They’re eyes that don’t miss anything but see everything. This man doesn’t miss much. Just by the way he’s looking at me, I can tell that he’s shrewd, intelligent, and cunning.

  But there’s also a cold hardness in his eyes that tells me he’s capable of inflicting petty cruelties as much as terrible atrocities. As I look into his eyes, I have no trouble believing this man ordered the murder of eight hundred people. What’s worse is that it would not surprise me to learn that even after ordering the murder of all those people, he didn’t lose a wink of sleep over it. This is a man who sees other people as being beneath him and therefore as expendable.

  Those eyes threaten to unnerve me, but I swallow hard and push the fear away. I don’t have time for it. And besides, showing fear to this man could prove fatal. He strikes me as the sort of man who thrives on the fear of others. A man who savors it.

  “Willem Mangold,” I say.

  Twenty

  Unknown Location; Seattle, WA

  “So, you know who I am,” he says, his voice rich, cultured, and dripping with a honey-sweet Georgia accent.

  “Yes, I do,” I reply. “And I know you’re intelligent enough to know that abducting a federal agent is a very serious crime.”

  He nods to one of the automatons next to him and he steps forward. I draw in a sharp breath as he pulls a knife out of his pocket and unfolds it. Light glitters off the edge of the blade. I’m transfixed and terrified; my heart skips a beat as he leans toward me. But instead of slicing me open, he cuts through the plastic cuffs around my wrists and ankles.

  That done, he steps back, and I see the other droid has set a chair down that Mangold is perched on, his legs crossed and his eyes boring into mine. I
try to rub the circulation back into my wrists as the robot twins drift back, standing near the door unobtrusively, but close enough that they can intervene if I decide to get frisky.

  “There, you see? You’re fine,” Mangold says. “We’re just here for a friendly chit-chat.”

  “Friendly chit-chats don’t usually begin with a taser and a hood.”

  He laughs softly. “I do apologize for that, Agent Wilder. But you have quite the reputation and I wanted to ensure that we had our proper face time together.”

  I let my hand drift down to my holster and am unsurprised to find that my weapon is missing. There’s no way in hell these guys would have missed that. Nor, I’m sure, did they miss my backup piece in my ankle holster.

  “Do not fret, Agent Wilder,” he goes on. “Your weapons will be returned to you in due course. I merely wanted to have a conversation with you, free from all these... distractions of gunfire.”

  I flash him a smirk. “Fine. You said I had a reputation,” I say. “And what reputation is it you think I have?”

  “Well, to hear my sources tell it—and I have sources everywhere—you can be intractable. I hear you sometimes shoot first and ask questions later,” he says. “Agent Blake Wilder has a temper, and when she perceives somebody to be her enemy, movin’ her from that opinion is difficult.”

  “And that’s what this is? You trying to convince me to move from that opinion?” I fire back. “Because I have to say, abducting me isn’t a great opening sales pitch.”

  “Oh? Do you perceive me to be your enemy?”

  I stand up and stretch myself out. I’m not sure how long I was in that chair but I’m stiff and sore. And my back, from where I got kicked, is throbbing. Folding my arms over my chest, I start to pace the small area where our little parlay has been set up. Mangold’s eyes follow me as I walk, but he doesn’t seem threatened by me. Of course, having those two automated slabs of beef behind him probably helps. I’m sure they’re packing.